


Cat and Mouse — The Early Days

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clever Cons, Gen, Prelude to an Unlikely Partnership, Stupendous Heists, pre-series AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This is a pre-series story that deviates from canon. In my version, Peter Burke is well acquainted with the brilliant master thief, Neal Caffrey, but he can’t pin anything on the young suspect. Even though there is not yet an arrest or incarceration at this point in time, it’s still a classic case of cat and mouse games and witty bantering. Peter and Neal are definitely in character, as is Mozzie. Actually, Neal and Mozzie are trying to run a con on a very suspicious Peter with dubious results.





	1. Slick As Silk And Just As Shiny

The bearded Hassidic Jew was clad in the long black overcoat known as a “rekel,” and wore the traditional broad-brimmed black hat that reached his ears where the “peyos” of long hair strands hung down to his shoulders. He was one of many such anonymous figures seen in the diamond district of New York City on 47th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues. These grandchildren and great-grandchildren of long-ago immigrants from Europe were the trusted couriers of multitudes of diamonds that traveled the circuit between the cutters and the merchants in the brick and mortar structures of the city. Today, this tall austere figure was making his way to Tiffany’s on 5th Avenue to deliver a hefty packet of unset diamonds for their perusal. If the world-famous jewelers of that establishment were satisfied, those sparkling little gems would be utilized to adorn bracelets and necklaces later offered to their well-heeled customers.

The courier had almost reached the 700 block of 5th Avenue when he felt something hard poking into his back. He had stopped temporarily at a crosswalk and was tightly sandwiched into a throng of other pedestrians waiting to gallop across the thoroughfare when the little green figure lit up and told them to “WALK.” Suddenly, he heard a whisper in his ear as a hand reached around him holding a small trademark robin’s egg blue bag—Tiffany’s, of course.

“Put the packet of diamonds into the bag and keep walking,” the voice hissed. “Don’t look back if you want to go home to your wife and children tonight.”

Of course, the Jew did exactly as he had been told. However, he didn’t obey all the threatening directives. Once he had reached the other side of the street, he hastily glanced over his shoulder. All he glimpsed was a short figure in a burka, her shape and face hidden from view, quickly waddling away. Traditional Muslim women were not an unfamiliar sight in New York. There were many oil-rich sheiks from the Middle East who frequently visited the cosmopolitan city. Their wives, just like women everywhere, liked to shop.

The all-encompassing garb worn by the thief had precluded any means of obtaining a useful description. When the responding police officers canvassed the area, they eventually found a discarded burka stuffed into an alcove between two buildings in a street-cam blind spot. In frustration, the lead detective on the case swallowed his pride and telephoned Special Agent Peter Burke at the FBI.

“Agent Burke,” the cop began hesitantly, “I’m sorry to drag you into our mess again, but since you gave us a heads-up about Neal Caffrey suddenly showing up in town, I thought you should know about the latest report. Maybe there really is some far-fetched connection between him and a rash of rather—well, as you know—peculiarly-orchestrated robberies that are sitting on our plate right now. They’re all still open and unsolved, and they all uniquely correspond with the time of his arrival from Europe. It’s probably a long shot, just like before, but I thought I’d cover all the bases.”

After Peter had been briefed, he responded almost resignedly, “Okay, Lieutenant, I’ll haul him in for a sit-down—again.” This would be the third time in the last month that this scenario would take place. It was almost like that stupid movie, “Groundhog Day,” where actor Bill Murray had to relive the same day over and over.

Peter Burke and the man known as Neal Caffrey had more than a nodding acquaintance. Peter _knew_ Caffrey was a brazen thief and con artist, but he had no hard proof to put the guy away. Serendipitous coincidences and Caffrey’s “solid” alibis didn’t cut it in Peter’s book. His gut said that if you smelled smoke, there was most definitely a fire somewhere. Time after time, he had interviewed the infuriating suspect with the same results. The handsome young man was amiable and cooperative because he had covered his tracks well. Even though the Bureau and Interpol both assumed that he was the mastermind behind a laundry list of heists, forgeries, frauds, pyramid schemes, and egregious racketeering around the globe, the smug dude was like Teflon—nothing stuck because the authorities pursuing him had no hard evidence to substantiate their claims.

Peter also knew for a fact that Caffrey swanned in and out of the United States quite frequently, and his arrival usually heralded a crime, such as a missing masterpiece from some venerable museum. However, like his counterparts abroad, Peter couldn’t nail Caffrey’s ass to the wall. As a last resort, Peter had Homeland Security ping him whenever Caffrey’s passport was swiped at any port of entry into the States. To date, that had not been the least bit helpful.

Peter walked out of his office and descended the stairs into the bullpen. “Jones, Diana, please bring in our usual suspect.” The two junior agents certainly didn’t need to hear a name—they already knew.

While he was waiting for round three with an infuriating sparring partner, Peter pulled out his notes from their previous encounters centered around, as the detective said, some peculiar robberies. One month ago, just days after Caffrey had taken up residence in the exclusive Gansevoort Hotel in the now trendy meat-packing district, a rare and priceless Rembrandt painting had been stolen while on its way to Sotheby’s Auction House. An authenticator had been entrusted with ferrying it to an exclusive sale when the theft occurred in broad daylight right on a New York City street.

The unsuspecting art expert had the unframed canvas tucked securely into a sturdy poster-size tube complete with a leather strap that fit snugly over his shoulder. For just a brief minute, he had leaned the container with the historical treasure against the rear door of his Mercedes while he was unlocking the car. Well, perhaps it had been a little longer than a minute because he paused to take a call on his cellphone and was temporarily distracted. That nanosecond was sufficient time for a small drone to come swooping down upon the scene. A thick wire grappling hook suspended from beneath the miniscule flying machine latched onto the strap. The priceless painting quickly soared off high over the rooftops of the skyscrapers and into the sunset. The little bucket of nuts and bolts carrying its precious cargo had made a clean getaway.

Peter immediately hauled Caffrey in for questioning, and even trumped up his suspicions so that a friendly judge would issue a warrant to search the suspect’s penthouse residence at the Gansevoort. The investigating agents found nothing in the hotel suite even resembling a drone, and Caffrey’s phone likewise yielded no app that would have been responsible for maneuvering one. The damn suspected thief even had an ironclad alibi. He had been having cocktails with a very beautiful lady at the hotel bar while “Top Gun” had been in progress.

Two weeks later, the FBI was pulled into an abduction of sorts which turned out, embarrassingly enough, to be a dognapping incident. Peter heard about that one long after the fact because the dog’s owner had followed instructions to the letter. That had included keeping mum until the ransom had been paid for her spoiled and precious “François,” an apricot-colored toy poodle.

The unsuspecting lady and her pooch had a routine from which they never deviated, so it was no surprise that the pair became low-hanging fruit for the abductor. Without fail, François was always chauffeured to an exclusive dog groomer on the first Tuesday of every month. His owner had a car service on retainer which acted as a taxi worthy of being entrusted to deliver the little poodle to the salon and then home again two hours later. Yep, François traveled in high style in his own little blue velvet doggie car seat in the back of the limo, most likely looking down his tiny canine nose at all the other less-indulged mutts ambulating on four feet with leashes around their necks.

It was on one such Tuesday that the doorman buckled the pup into place in a limo that failed to return to the brownstone in the allotted time. At first, the owner had deigned to make a phone call to the groomer, only to be told that François had missed his appointment. A call to the limo service was more distressing. They claimed that they had received an email saying that the owner and her pooch were going to be out of town that particular Tuesday, so they had never sent a car. To say that the lady was distressed was putting it mildly. She immediately popped two Valium and was about to call the police commissioner when the ransom call came in. Two hundred grand in crisp new Franklins would ensure that the dog would be returned unharmed.

Well, two hundred thousand dollars was chump change for this wealthy lady. She would have happily forked over two million to get her poor, almost assuredly traumatized, François back safe and sound. As instructed, she left the cash in a Louis Vuitton satchel behind the boathouse in Central Park. By the time that she hurried home for more instructions, François was awaiting her in the doorman’s arms.

“He just came scampering up the street,” the bewildered man told the owner. “I couldn’t imagine why he was out and about without you. I hope everything is okay,” he finished apprehensively.

“Oh, my sweet little Shnookums,” the owner was crooning softly, completely ignoring the uniformed doorman, “everything is fine now. Mama’s here.”

And François did, indeed, appear to be happy and healthy, even if the new shiny red bows in his ears clashed with his apricot coloring, and the brilliant red toenail polish looked garish. That fashion faux pas could be easily remedied!

Peter was almost reluctant to haul Caffrey in on that inelegant caper, but he did his due diligence just the same.

“You like dogs, Caffrey?” he asked the dapper young man seated before him.

“Sure, who doesn’t?” the guy said innocently.

“Any particular breed, maybe like a little poodle?” Peter continued nonetheless, almost feeling mortified to be having this conversation.

Caffrey grimaced. “Poodles are a bit high-maintenance with all that sophisticated grooming. I’m not particularly a fan of little bows and painted toenails. I’m more of a Heinz 57 kind of guy. If I got a dog, it would be a mongrel from the pound rather than a high-strung thoroughbred who probably doesn’t even realize that he’s a dog.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. He refrained from licking the tip of his finger and drawing a little tick mark in the air above Neal’s head. Score one for Caffrey. The twerp was arrogantly letting Peter know that he _was_ behind the dognapping, but it was up to Peter to prove it. Of course, Caffrey’s alibi for the time frame was unbreakable.

Now the bell was just about to ring for round three as Peter saw Caffrey being escorted across the bullpen by Jones and Diana.

“Agent Burke,” Caffrey said with a dazzling smile. “Long time, no see. What’s it been—maybe ten days? Do you miss me that much when we’re apart?”

“Let’s have our discussion in the interview room, Caffrey. Of course, you know the way,” Peter answered with a wave of his hand, refusing to be baited. The FBI agent was a man on a mission to get the better of this annoyingly smug pissant once and for all.

Neal unbuttoned his suit jacket and settled himself into a hard metal chair with practiced ease. Somehow, he even seemed comfortable as he stared across the table’s expanse at his inquisitor. He smiled that smarmy smile and waited patiently for Peter to begin the dance.

“Caffrey, where were you yesterday at exactly 3:15 PM?” Peter fired his first salvo.

“Well, that’s an easy one,” Neal said rather casually. “I was sitting behind home plate at Yankee Stadium. It was a day game against the Houston Astros.”

“Can anyone verify that?” Peter asked.

“Sure,” was the quick answer. “Father Arbona from Saint Mary’s Parrish and fifteen of the kids from his CYO class will all swear that I was present and accounted for from start to finish. I purchased the tickets myself for a whole bunch of exuberant boys. Here, let me show you a selfie on my phone.”

Peter was a lapsed Catholic, but he nonetheless knew that CYO was an acronym for Catholic Youth Organization, a program sponsored by the Archdiocese to provide more appropriate opportunities for kids who were at risk of disappearing through the cracks. Instead of hanging out on street corners, they were enticed to join chaperoned, organized outings and events in the city. Just as Caffrey said, he was sitting beside a graying Hispanic man in his fifties on a tiered bench seat. Young black, brown, and white faces, some with shaved heads or dreadlocks, some with piercings, gold chains, or tats, were all smiling and jockeying to be included in the picture.

“Now why would you be camped out at a baseball game with a bunch of kids, Caffrey? I don’t know how you feel about teenagers, but I have never seen you take an interest in any kind of sport.”

“That’s how ill-informed you are,” Neal taunted. “Not only do I enjoy a good athletic competition every now and then, sometimes I even participate in some. I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent polo player as well as a very adept fencing opponent.”

“Next question,” Peter interrupted Neal’s bragging. “Why a priest for an alibi? Are you even Catholic?”

Neal sighed. “With an Irish name like ‘Caffrey,’ how can you even ask that question?”

Peter actually snorted. “That’s assuming ‘Caffrey’ is your real name. That moniker only came into existence when you turned eighteen years old. There’s a mighty big void in your biography surrounding your origins, Buddy. Care to fill me in?”

Neal sighed again. “Agent Burke, as you are so fond of telling me, you know _everything_ there is to know about yours truly. Were you simply striving to be intimidating when you said that, but are now admitting that you may have stretched the truth just a tad? Shame on you!”

Peter had his fill of bantering. He slapped down a photo of someone in a burka caught on a street cam near 5th Avenue.

“Who is this person, Caffrey?”

Neal dutifully picked up the print and scanned it briefly. “Is that a rhetorical question? How could I possibly tell you who this person is, Agent Burke?”

Peter expected the denial cloaked in ignorance. “That individual stole over $500,000 worth of loose cut diamonds yesterday from a courier in broad daylight on 5th Avenue. Any insights?”

Neal cocked his head playfully. “Well, unless you think that I am capable of being in two places at the same time, I can’t offer you any ‘insights,’ Agent Burke. Besides, the dubious culprit seems to be vertically challenged. I’m much taller than your suspect. If it were me, I would have been forced to shuffle along on my knees.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “I’m thinking you have an accomplice, Pal. You two are working as a team. You think ‘em up, and your cohort in crime pulls ‘em off while you’re providing yourself with an alibi. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Okay,” Neal said agreeably, “You’re wrong. Happy now?”

Peter was far from happy, but he had to let Caffrey go—again!!


	2. The Mockingbird Was What Color?

After his verbal exchange with Peter Burke, Neal returned to the Gansevoort and puttered around until early evening. Then he dressed in tattered jeans, sneakers, and a black hoodie before slipping out of the service entrance and quickly descending a set of concrete stairs that led to the subway. Eventually, he came up from beneath the city in the Lower East Village. He quickly found the Chinese restaurant with the basement apartment near Delancey Street, then knocked on the red door and waited. He was finally rewarded for his patience when a voice demanded, “Pass phrase?”

“ _I saw a mockingbird in the park_ ,” Neal intoned as seriously as possible.

 _“What color was the mockingbird?”_ a disembodied voice demanded.

Neal sighed. Over the years, that damn feathered creature had been so many hues on the color wheel that he had lost track. “Purple?” he replied hesitantly, “Or maybe fuchsia?”

The snort that came through the metal door was loud enough to be heard outside on the street. “Neal, how hard could it possibly be to remember a simple color?”

Neal was exasperated. “Mozzie, you can see me through the peephole! Now forget the stupid bird and let me in.”

Mozzie had a stern look on his face as he finally released three chain locks as well as two dead bolts. He immediately launched into a scolding tirade. “You need to take my security measures seriously, Neal. They have kept us out of jail all this time, so do not roll your eyes and look superior and condescending.”

“Sorry, sorry, Moz,” Neal said quickly as he held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

That seemed to pacify the little bald man who returned to a small table illuminated by a gooseneck lamp. An array of faceted diamonds winked coquettishly in the light. Mozzie enhanced his vision with a jeweler’s loupe and seemed very satisfied with what he saw.

“These are very, very nice, and a tidy little haul,” he proclaimed. “I know a fence in Europe who could get us fifty cents on the dollar, no questions asked.”

Neal wasn’t interested in the diamonds right now. He had other things on his mind. “I saw you on a street cam photo, Moz, portraying a Muslim woman in a burka. Isn’t that a bit over the top, even for you?” Neal asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I needed to be incognito, mon frère,” Mozzie protested. “I think that I’d have been a bit more conspicuous if I had ambled around as R2D2 from Star Wars. It was really a stroke of genius on my part and it worked like a charm.”

“Yeah, well, we need to take things down a notch for now,” Neal explained. “Burke has me coming into the FBI Building so frequently that they’re validating my parking passes.”

“That’s a lie,” Mozzie quickly responded. “I know for a fact that the Feds always provide you with door to door service!”

Neal shrugged. “Nonetheless, these little hijinks have to stop for awhile until the heat dies down.”

Mozzie became stubborn. “These ‘little hijinks’ are paying the bills until you finally hold up your end of the bargain and get close to Vincent Adler. Once you finagle his account information and we’ve harpooned our white whale, I won’t have to debase myself by feeding pâté to spoiled toy poodles.”

“Mozzie, you fed the pooch the other half of your sandwich. It was liverwurst on rye with mustard from the deli up the street,” Neal clarified.

“Pretty much the same thing,” Mozzie rationalized. “And the little critter really liked it and licked the waxed paper clean!”

“Listen, Moz,” Neal became serious, “there’s no way for me to get to Adler while Agent Burke is stuck to my ass like a barnacle. Maybe we should table the plan for now and get out of Dodge. We can always find a new mark.”

The little bald man looked thoughtful. “Or maybe we should be thinking about directing Burke’s attention to someone else who we’ve set up as the fall guy—someone that we really don’t like. While he’s watching one of our hands, he’ll never notice what we’re doing with the other. It will be the ultimate bait and switch. Now, we just need to think of someone we really despise whose destiny is to play a martyr.”

A second later, the two men said in unison—“Matthew Keller!”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was always prudent to keep track of your competition, so Neal and Mozzie were well aware that Keller was now in the United States. In fact, he was actually in New York City making frequent trips to Brighton Beach to renew some tenuous Russian ties. He owed the Russian Mob money—lots of money, and his chit was coming due. The rumor was that Keller was trying to renegotiate the terms of his rather large loan, but the odds of getting an extension, even at usury rates, were slim to none. And you definitely never welched on the Russian Mafia and expected to keep breathing.

Neither Neal nor Mozzie was surprised by Matthew Keller’s predicament. Keller had difficulty playing nice with others. Never a man of his word, the vile, deceitful little jerk screwed people every chance he got, and that included fellow criminals and con men. Proving that he wasn’t a team player, he had double-crossed Neal and Mozzie in Scandinavia. Neal had barely managed to escape a fortress, but Alex Hunter had not been so fortunate. Lesson learned—Keller was a snake!

“I hear that good old Matthew is presently in dire straits and desperately needs a boatload of cash to get the Ruskies off his back,” Mozzie said slowly. “We just have to figure out a way to make him think that we possess the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s simply a matter of spreading the word in the right ears and then waiting for him to come lurking our way.”

Neal was thoughtful. “We can’t make it seem too easy, Moz. Keller is as cagey and wily as a fox and would smell a trap in a heartbeat. It has to be a scenario worthy of our brilliant minds in order for us to sell it.”

“Agreed,” Mozzie murmured. “But, as you pointed out, we do have crafty, dazzling minds, so surely we can come up with something spectacular and tempting.”

Neal grimaced. “Please, Moz, nothing that entails burkas, drones, or poodles, I hope!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie ruminated on the puzzle for two days before he had an “Aha!” moment. Now he was laying it out, chapter and verse, for his partner in crime.

“Neal, I suppose that you are aware of my fascination with stuff found in storage lockers.”

“Yeah, I am,” Neal said with a sigh. “Junk is your passion and I’ve seen you binge-watch ‘Storage Wars’ ad nauseam.”

“Do not mock, mon frère,” Mozzie chided. “One person’s ‘junk’ is another person’s treasure. It just depends on your particular needs and your point of view.”

“Right,” Neal said succinctly, not in the least cowed by Mozzie’s attempt to reprimand him.

Mozzie refused to be ridiculed. “Well, it just so happens that I know a guy who knows a guy who hit the mother lode in an unclaimed storage locker in Virginia. His top bid of $150 got him an original copy of the Declaration of Independence signed by all the founding fathers of our great nation. So, tell me—how do you like them apples, Junior? Still going to snicker condescendingly?” Mozzie challenged.

Neal raised his eyebrows and was doubtful. “That sounds like some urban legend, Moz. Are you really buying into it?”

“The find is definitely authentic, my skeptical friend,” Mozzie argued. “A ton of experts conducted the most stringent diagnostic tests to prove its provenance! It has a fascinating history which I took the painstaking time to document in my file of miscellaneous trivia,” he added as he tapped the side of his head. “Now, let me enlighten you. I swear this is going to knock your socks off,” the little man predicted.

Neal sat down resignedly and put his feet up on Mozzie’s futon. This was, most likely, going to take a while. Mozzie loved to stretch out a good story, and this time was probably no different. The yarn spinner did not disappoint as he began the tale.

“This rare parchment copy of the Declaration of Independence, made in Washington in the 1820s for founding father James Madison, was lost to the public for more than a century because nobody knew that it even existed. Of course, the early forefathers knew about it, but apparently that bit of information got lost in the shuffle as the decades passed. The recently resurrected copy is one of the exquisite facsimiles made from the original handwritten calfskin document crafted in Philadelphia in the summer of 1776. Scholars say it bears the image of the Declaration that most people know, although the original is now so badly faded it’s very hard to visualize.

Back in colonial times, two hundred facsimiles of the original Declaration were ordered by Secretary of State John Quincy Adams, a future president, who was concerned about the already worn condition of the 40-year-old original. Master engraver William Stone made the copies in his shop on Pennsylvania Avenue and created an extra one for himself.

In 1824, the facsimiles were distributed to Congress, the White House, and various VIPs like Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, as well as Madison. Each man got two copies. In time, both of Madison’s copies mysteriously vanished, and it is only now that one has surfaced. That’s the very one which wound up in a storage locker, and its journey took a rather circuitous route to get there.

During the Civil War that spanned the years from 1861 to 1865, the precious document was hidden behind wallpaper in a home in Virginia to keep Union soldiers from finding it. Later, it sat in a closet in Kentucky, in a broken frame, unappreciated and stored in a cardboard box. Eventually, it made its way home to the East Coast and wound up stuck in a bedroom cabinet. Ultimately, it came to repose in a storage locker in Lexington, Virginia.

The discoverer and current owner is a very cantankerous but sly old coot named Festus Cooper. He was hopeful but unconvinced that his find was authentic. When the numerous historical masterminds heaved a gasp and gave a thumbs up, collectors began bombarding him with offers that were in the seven-figure range. Right now, he’s standing firm just waiting for the price to continually rise. Of course, in the meantime, he must continue to cough up hefty indemnity premiums to insure its value. He might be sitting on a treasure, but poor old Festus is living hand to mouth right now. That’s where we come in.”

“Are you suggesting that we steal it so that Cooper can collect from the insurance company and avoid paying future premiums?” Neal asked curiously.

“Not exactly,” Mozzie said vaguely. “If we did that, it still doesn’t allow Keller to replace you as Peter Burke’s new BFF. Our mission is to make it appear that Keller stole the document so that Burke can arrest him instead of you. Get where I’m going with this?”

“It sounds a bit far-fetched and convoluted,” Neal admitted. “Take me through the mechanics, step by step, and use one syllable words, please.”

Mozzie huffed a sigh. Sometimes, Neal pretended to be obtuse and it was annoying. “Step one,” Mozzie began pedantically, “is approaching Festus Cooper and offering him a deal that he won’t want to refuse. We’ll tell him that we would like to ‘borrow’ his valuable artifact for a little while and we’ll offer him $10,000 for the time that we are renting it. To a guy living in a double-wide jacked up on cinder blocks, that’s going to be tempting. It will also solve his problem of the looming insurance premium.

Now, of course, he still may not want to part with his treasure for any amount of time because he won’t trust us with it, even though we’ll assure him that the Feds will be returning it to him within a week. So, we’ll also offer him our little pouch of diamonds as collateral.

'Step Two' will involve us taking the document back to New York and spreading the word that we have it after Cooper files a police report and swears that it was stolen. Keller will hear the rumors of our involvement and come calling. We’ll set the stage to make it appear that you are making fake copies to foist upon greedy, off-the-grid collectors. Keller will snatch the real deal in a heartbeat and try to use it to settle his debt with the Russians. He’ll probably imagine it framed over a fireplace in Vladimir Putin’s dacha in Russia.

'Step Three' is a bit time-sensitive and will entail the utilization of your talents as a con man, mon frère. Hopefully, Agent Burke will be predictable and haul you in for questioning. At that point, you must somehow point him towards Keller. He has to take you seriously and nab Keller before he hands over the prize to the Russians.”

Neal was thoughtful. “The success of this con is predicated on the assumption that Cooper will be obliging, and that could be iffy. Maybe, we should just steal the Declaration instead of trying to broker a deal with an unknown entity.”

Moz shook his head. “That may not be a wise move, Neal. Cooper’s Airstream trailer is parked smack dab in the middle of nowhere out in God’s country with two mean pit bulls as gatekeepers. The local yokel is also a card-carrying member of the NRA and has a whole arsenal of guns tucked away in that aluminum rust bucket. The only way to approach him is through a cousin—that’s the friend of the guy who I mentioned earlier. He’ll grease the way and vouch for us. Then it’s on us to point out all the pluses of the plan.

We’ll explain that no matter what happens, Cooper wins. He’ll be getting untraceable, tax-free, under-the-table money—our offer of $10,000. If we later renege and don’t return the valuable parchment, the insurance company will be cutting him a check for its assessed value, which happens to be astronomical. He’ll also have a handful of very valuable diamonds in his possession. Cooper may be a tobacco-chewing product of familial in-breeding, but hopefully he won’t be stupid and reject this golden opportunity.

Neal was weighing the options. This con really relied on a country bumpkin’s greed. Oh well, he had worked with less sure bets in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information about the long-lost copy of The Declaration of Independence is true. I read an article about it in February of this year. I then tucked it away in my files and hoped that I could one day weave it into a White Collar fiction story. Of course, I altered some of the facts a bit, and involving Neal, Mozzie, Keller, and a character named Festus Cooper are all products of my imagination. However, if you are interested in the real story, cut and paste the following link into your browser and read another fascinating tale.
> 
> https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/a-rare-copy-of-the-declaration-of-independence-survived-the-civil-war-hidden-behind-wallpaper-later-it-was-tossed-in-a-box/ar-BBJi6HP?li=BBmkt5R&ocid=spartandhp


	3. Be It Ever So Humble, There’s No Place Like Home

It took a bit of slick elusive expertise for Neal to lose his government shadow and join Mozzie for the trip down South below the Mason-Dixon Line.  Neal had the forethought to purchase an Easy Pass transponder in his own name to make it a bit easier for Peter Burke to track his journey two days hence. It was all part of his clever plan.

Cooper was expecting them after Mozzie’s intermediary put a bug in the Virginia picker’s ear. Just as predicted, two mean junkyard dogs met them as they put one foot out the door of Mozzie’s vintage Cadillac. There were ominous growls and curled lips until Festus Cooper emerged from his trailer in a soiled undershirt and gave the command for his canine sentries to stand down. Although the man didn’t have a rifle in his hands, there were plenty on display inside his home.

Cooper’s little hovel was a sorry sight. Unwashed dishes with remnants of dried food adorned counters, and the flies were having a feeding frenzy despite the hanging pest strips. There was a sagging corduroy recliner jammed into one corner held together with duct tape. Beside it was an old-fashioned folding tv table holding a tin can overflowing with unfiltered butts. Neal was hesitant to draw in a breath of the air which was a disgusting blend of smells—wet dog fur and cigarette carcinogens. That made his eyes begin to water, or maybe it was simply tears of sorrow when he spied a sepia-toned treasure taped haphazardly to the Formica paneling. To the uninformed, this two-centuries old testament to the bravery of a new fledgling colonial nation would seem right at home in this environment. Nobody would give it a second glance. Actually, no one would even give Cooper or his home a second glance, so maybe existing in plain sight was the good old boy’s ultimate insurance policy.

Mozzie was point man, so he quickly made his pitch to Cooper, who pondered and scowled as he worked a toothpick back and forth in his mouth.

“Them little diamonds ain’t gonna be doing me no good around these parts,” he complained. “Ain’t nobody I know who would have the dough to buy ‘em.”

Mozzie countered that argument. “You could ask some of your relatives to hook you up with an off-the-grid fence. Although you’d probably have to pay the guy a hefty commission, you’d still come out ahead. And don’t forget, that’s all unreportable income. But rest assured, my friend, it won’t come to that. Your copy of the Declaration of Independence will be restituted to you within the week by the FBI, and we’ll return at that time to retrieve the gems and relieve you of that burden.

Now, let’s get back to the artifact.  Not only will you get it back, you will also be getting a lot of publicity and that’s a good thing. It will widen the base of the interested collectors who will be begging you to sell it to them. I’ll wager that it will probably become a bidding war, and you can take your pick of the stupendous offers. So, you see, my friend, you can’t lose because it’s a win/win for everybody.”

Cooper was shrewd. “I heard some talk from my cousin that you want to screw some guy who pissed you off and done you wrong. So, is that what’s really goin’ on here?”

Neal and Mozzie exchanged glances before the little bald man opted to be candid. “Yes, we’ve had our differences with a certain person and we want to inflict a bit of payback.”

Cooper nodded sagely. “I get that—yes, sir, I really do. Blood feuds are a way of life out here. Most of ‘em started generations ago, and these days most of my own relatives don’t even know who they’re supposed to shun at family reunions. Hell, they don’t know the ‘why’ part neither. Now, that being said, I want you fellas to realize that you really don’t want to be on the wrong end of _my_ payback, ya hear?’ So, don’t cross me!”

“Message received,” Mozzie declared.

“Well, just so we understand each other real good,” Cooper answered.

However, the cunning man wasn’t quite finished. “Now, just put this thought in your pipe and smoke it, boys—I could really screw you guys big time. I already got your $10,000, and then I can go ahead and collect on the money from the insurance company and pocket that. I still have your diamonds. I can take them and myself up to Richmond to find a buyer in the big city. I’d be getting the whole shebang and there’s nothing you two can do about it.”

Mozzie scowled. “You certainly could do all of those things,” he agreed, “so I guess it all comes down to a matter of trust. Are you a man of your word, Mr. Cooper?”

The grizzled old dude grinned displaying a smile missing a few teeth. “Damned straight I am,” he proclaimed loudly. “Besides that old piece of wrinkled tan paper on the wall, my word is the only valuable thing that I own. We got ourselves a deal, my friends.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you trust him?” Neal asked dubiously as they started home, ignoring the Interstate this time and opting for backroads. The old copy of the Declaration of Independence was safely rolled inside an art tube in the backseat.

“Actually, I think I do,” Mozzie said slowly. “He has sort of a ‘noble savage’ aura about him that authors of the Romance Age extolled in their novels. I also think I may have detected some latent potential as a con man.  So, yes, I do believe he will keep up his end of the bargain. We certainly made our offer enticing enough to corrupt his virtue. But, alas, as you know, I tend to be paranoid. Therefore, I did take the precaution of substituting some exquisite little zircons for the real diamonds that will pass muster to the untrained eye.”

“Good thinking, Moz, but I’m still a bit worried,” Neal answered doubtfully.

Mozzie pooh-poohed his concern. “Now stop fretting, mon frère. Take a little nap until we get back to New York. Once we’re home, you’re going to be putting in long hours doing what you do best. I have the pieces of calfskin parchment properly aged and the organic inks and quill pens all ready for you to begin making duplicates. We have just a small window of time—less than forty-eight hours—before Cooper is going to raise the hew and cry about the bogus theft. After that news shocks the world, we’ll quickly offload our fakes to around-the-globe collectors who look for good bargains on the dark web. Everybody will think they’re getting the original until the Feds recover the real deal, hopefully strapped to Matthew Keller’s back.”

Once back in Mozzie’s little hideaway, Neal labored almost non-stop, producing six perfect replicas. Two days later, exactly on cue, Cooper reported an outrageous theft. Neal’s co-conspirator for this caper did his part by arranging expedient sales of Neal’s doppelgangers to collectors abroad. Of course, those buyers would keep quiet about their illicit purchases. So far, it was all good.

Now it was time for the next step of getting Keller’s attention. A word here and there in the right ear around town led that villain right to Mozzie’s red door one evening while Neal and the little man made themselves scarce. They were actually sitting in a Chinese restaurant across the street and watched Keller, the oily son of a bitch, slink through the shadows. When they returned to the apartment after they saw him leave, the parchment was gone.

“Okay, mon frère, we’re locked and loaded,” Mozzie crowed. “Now I just hope Burke gets off his ass and does his thing before Keller arranges a meet with the Russians. Do you think we should give him a hint and a little push in the right direction? Feds can sometimes be slow on the uptake.”

That ploy wasn’t necessary, however, because Neal was immediately accosted by two agents before he even set foot in his own suite at the Gansevoort. Now he was again sitting in that familiar little interview room across from Peter Burke.

“Do you want to dispense with all the pussyfooting around, Caffrey, and just cop to the theft of that antique copy of The Declaration of Independence? It will go easier for you if you confess. The prosecuting attorney may offer you a deal and the judge may be lenient with the sentencing,” Burke explained.

“Now why would I do that?” Neal said with a perplexed look on his face.

“Oh, come on, Caffrey. You practically handed this to us on a silver platter, so we’ve got you buttoned up tight with little wiggle room. You bought a friggin’ Easy Pass, for God’s sake. That’s certainly not worthy of your criminal expertise so I think you must be slipping, Buddy.”

Neal looked innocent and baffled. “So what if I played the part of an honest citizen and bought a traffic transponder for car trips. That’s not a crime,” he answered indignantly.

“Okay, so you want to play hard to get,” Peter sighed. “Well, Buddy, that transponder showed that you made a beeline down to Virginia a couple of days ago, and then, ta-da, a priceless antiquity disappeared soon afterward. That’s no coincidence and your little electronic gismo places you right at the scene of the crime. Did you think that I wouldn’t check you out as soon as I heard about the theft?”

Neal shrugged. “Isn’t Virginia a little out of your purview, Agent Burke? Don’t you have enough crime here in New York to keep you busy?”

“Keeping track of you is my fulltime job, Caffrey, no matter where you roam,” Peter sniped. “Now, please provide me with my chuckle for the day and tell me your bogus alibi.”

Neal frowned. “I guess I’m not prepared because I don’t have one readily available.”

Now it was Peter’s turn to narrow his eyes and look indignant. “I’m not buying that line, Caffrey. You’re always prepared, so don’t try to con me. What’s your end game?”

“My end game is to stay out of prison. You, on the other hand, are hell-bent on putting me away. However, you’re barking up the wrong tree this time, Agent Burke. Think about it. If I had stolen ‘anything,’ wouldn’t I have all the pat answers on the tip of my tongue? I’m telling you, I don’t have the item in question. I’m sure your little posse of G-men are taking my suite apart as we speak. Let me assure you, they won’t find a scrap of evidence.”

Peter regarded Neal suspiciously. “Okay, Mr. Innocent, tell me why you went to Virginia to the exact little town where the theft took place.”

Neal looked thoughtful. “Maybe I was planning to visit historical Williamsburg and took a wrong turn. Or maybe I was intending to visit Busch Gardens and ride a rollercoaster. You see, this little jaunt was sort of an on-the-fly adventure.”

Peter snorted. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you went down to case the place where the manuscript was, and then went back two days later with a gun in your hand. The legitimate owner claims that a masked male assailant bullied his way into his residence, threatened to kill the frightened man, then roughed him up, knocked him unconscious, and trussed him up with duct tape. Luckily, a cousin came to visit and found the unfortunate soul. He could have died if he wasn’t discovered right away.”

Neal’s eyes widened, and he looked appalled. “Agent Burke, you have studied me for years like a bug under a microscope, so you know that I’m a nonviolent person and I abhor guns. How could you even think I had anything to do with hurting another human being!”

That statement did give Peter pause. It was true that any form of violence had never been part of Caffrey’s modus operandi. His weapons of choice were his brilliant brain and his silver tongue. But the agent suspected that Neal knew more than he was letting on.

“Look, Caffrey, I’m willing to work with you on this one and give you the benefit of the doubt—at least about the egregious theft. However, I’m not stupid. I think you did travel to Virginia with the intention of stealing that valuable piece of parchment, but someone else beat you to the punch. And, I’d give good odds that you even know who that person is. Care to share?”

Neal looked flummoxed. “Are you actually expecting me to cast aspersions on an acquaintance that I may have in my life? Not cool, Agent Burke, not cool at all.”

“Oh, so you’re trying to tell me that there _is_ honor among thieves?” Peter sniggered drolly. “I thought that was a myth.”

“Look, Elliot Ness, let’s cut to the chase,” Neal finally responded. “Either place me under arrest or let me go.”

“I’ll let you go for now, but I’m going to make your life miserable, Buddy,” Peter threatened. “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll look out for number one and try to get me off your back. Keep your ears tuned to the word on the street, Neal, and share a rumor or two with me. Here’s my card with my personal cell number. Call me, day or night, if you finally see the light, but don’t take forever. There are limits to my patience.”

Neal didn’t miss the fact that Agent Burke had ultimately addressed him in a familiar fashion. Rather than “Caffrey,” it was now “Neal.” Their weird “relationship” had suddenly taken on a new context. Everything was falling neatly into place.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie also had his ear to the ground and heard that Keller had arranged a meeting with the Russian crime boss the next evening. Neal and Mozzie’s arch enemy was under the gun and not letting any grass grow under his feet. Neal quickly texted Peter Burke an anonymous message from an unidentified burner phone.

_Check out Matthew Keller. Interpol has reams of info on him. At 8 PM tonight, he’ll be meeting a Russian kingpin in Brighton Beach. Keller will come bearing gifts._

Of course, the surprised FBI agent didn’t waste any time either. He had his team intercept the suspicious man and catch him red handed with the missing Declaration of Independence. It was a banner day for the Bureau, and Peter held a news conference the next afternoon letting the world know it. When questioned by the journalists about how he had solved the crime, he just blithely claimed that it all happened after an anonymous tip.

Neal and Mozzie were quite sure Keller got their message, loud and clear, just as they were sure that Keller would escape the FBI’s clutches, no matter what high-security prison they utilized to contain him. Undoubtedly, Keller wouldn’t remain dormant for long and would take up his life of crime once more. It was only a matter of time before Peter Burke would be focused on a new, elusive target—one who was crafty enough to keep the FBI agent on his toes for at least the next decade. The troublesome agent would then have a new motivating force and he’d take his eyes off an old one. Hopefully, Neal could then get on with the business of Vincent Adler.

The next day, the handsome con man was sitting alone at a little outdoor café in Midtown. Mozzie, who was compulsive and liked to tie up loose ends, was on his way to Virginia once again to retrieve their fake diamonds. It was a pleasant scene until Agent Peter Burke suddenly plunked himself down in the chair opposite the young man.

“Thanks to you, all’s well that ends well, Neal,” he said with a smile. “You’re off the hook this time, Buddy.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you are referring, Agent Burke.”

“Of course you don’t,” Peter said mischievously. “Nonetheless, you did good, Neal. This could be the start of a wonderful relationship. If you’re willing, I could use your expertise in certain matters. You could become my confidential informant instead of my nemesis.”

“That statement borders on being blasphemous,” Neal responded. “What kind of guy do you take me for? I even feel twitchy just being seen with you in public when you have a smile on your face. If you want to continue this discussion, Agent Burke, please be mindful of my reputation. It might look better if you put on the handcuffs and manhandled me over to that ugly Taurus parked illegally at the curb.”

Peter Burke laughed delightedly. This young man was a challenge, but he was also brilliant, not to mention lots of fun when he traded barbs and insults with Peter like an unfiltered sarcastic standup comic in Vegas. Maybe one day, Peter could corral all that fascinating energy and make Caffrey tread the straight and narrow. He certainly hoped it was possible. Peter would continue to keep his eye on the prize. Right now, it was baby steps, but who knew what the future held.


End file.
